Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Home.
Not my home. But isn’t home where family is?
I’m just about to tell Ephemeral that it’s fine. That I shouldn’t have even asked her for this. That we can just discuss the funding distribution and call it a day. She can even email me her recommendations. I’ll get up and thank her for her time and for being someone who got under my skin in exactly the way I needed and who opened my eyes and ears and the other silent parts of me. For being patient and kind, gentle and fiery with me. For seeing me and not caring about my money, for believing that I was never going to taser a freaking child, for introducing me to the world’s best potato cat, and for being so wonderfully herself.
I just need to find my balance.
And my breath.
I down the water and realize I can’t hold the glass so tightly, or I’m going to cause another bloody incident. One a day is more than enough.
Soft fingertips slide over my scarred knuckles. In a bid for survival, how many fights have I engaged in, both before and after it was a profession?
Her feather-light touch clears the darkness from my eyes, from my soul, and from my throat, where it was squeezing too tight for a deep breath. “What kind of cookies would you like to learn how to make, Thorn?”
Joy and disbelief war inside me like sharp talons, wounding and healing me at the same time.
“Chocolate chip? Peanut butter? Shortbread?” she asks, throwing out suggestions.
“Monster, I think. The more stuff in them, the better.”
“When?” she breathes, her voice whisper thin. “If you let me know, I’ll make sure I have the ingredients. And that I make time.”
“I want to spend a week with my family. They know I’m coming. I’ll be staying at a hotel so I don’t impose. And we both need our space. But…after that?”
“Eight days.” She bites down so hard on her lip that the area turns a dark red. Her hand curls around mine, her fingers so much smaller, paler, and far more perfect. Flawless. Soft. The touch of a cat-loving, cat-dress-wearing, brightly colored angel. “Okay, I can make that work. There are seasonal open spots here if you want to get one of those tin can trailer things.” Her fingers continue to my wrist, and she strokes along it lightly, all the sensation she stirs almost an agony. “Thorn?”
“Hmm?” I feel curiously lightheaded again, but this time without the pain or the terrible shortness of breath, without the anxiety, and my heart rate skyrocketing. It’s beating hard, probably too fast, but that’s okay.
“You don’t have to buy a second chance with them. What you did the first time…I’m so sorry. It must have been so hard. They just want you. They’ve always just wanted you.”
It would be easy to argue with that, but now I know how wrong I was. I’ve wasted years on the assumption that I’m missing something vital that other people have in order to be liked and wanted. She’s right. My mom and brothers don’t want money. They want me. They just stopped asking me to be me and to come home because I stopped listening.
Her eyes trace my face and land on my lips. Then, hers part, sucking in a breath. “On an honest scale of one to ten, how bad is that wound hurting you now?”
“Honestly? I haven’t even felt it for the past ten minutes. And right now?” I fix my gaze pointedly on her parted lips. Her pulse thrashes in her neck, and the flush on her cheeks deepens. Her pupils are darker, half blown out. “Right now, what wound?”
She gets closer and closer, and then I’m pulling her into my lap.
She gasps, spreading her legs and balancing herself, taking care not to hurt me. She traces my lips so softly with her fingertip before her lips meet mine. They ghost across, sending up a shower of sparks in their wake. It’s so much hotter because it’s not intense or devouring. I get to feel all of her, and she gets to feel and taste and take all of me, just a fraction at a time. It’s not a tease. It’s the most intimate experience of my life.
“You don’t have to buy a second chance with me either,” she whispers, her breath skating across my mouth. “You never had to buy a first one.”
It hurts like hell to take a chance like this, but I welcome the pain. Ephemeral found herself here. It only took her two months to pick a spot, to make friends like she never had before, and to find out what she wanted to do with her life and make it a reality. I’m pretty sure she even started late. I have no idea how that even works, but if anyone can figure out something like that, it’s this woman. I know she’d tell me that it’s taken her years to get here, not just a few months, and that even now, this is just the start. She’d say she’s not there yet, and I’d say the same thing for myself, but maybe we’re two people who need to give ourselves the hugest break ever.